The Last Time and Lament for Louie

Today Louie failed to make the jump up to the window seat.

 
The top picture is Louie full grown.  The bottom picture is Charley at 8 months in February 2015  

These two poems were written five months apart and mark two points of grief in our losing of a dearly loved pet and family member.  We had Louie with us a dozen years.  He had no other agenda than to be with us.  He was a joy to the eye and the heart.  

We waited a year to get Charley, a black standard Poodle.  Charley is different, lovable and a sweet reminder of the pleasures Louie brought us.
 

The Last Time                                             #562 February 2013

Today Louie failed to make the jump

up to the window seat. He flopped ungainly                            

to the floor and did not try once more. 

I would not see him on that perch again.   

It must have been embarrassing to him

for me to see the waning of his strength.

I notice now and then he stands there looking up

remembering the sun’s warmth, the view

of birds and squirrels.  He does not seem to hear

as well nor bark at strangers any more. 

I dread his further losses, weighing when

it’s time somewhere along his sad decline.

I watch it all and deeply feel my sighs.

and know that every living creature dies.

Lament for Louie                                                            #568 July 7, 2013

Louie died last night.  His presence shouts  

in the quiet house. We breakfast on the deck

where even the air is still, the wind chimes silent.           

The meadow, where he ran free, seems empty, forlorn.

A flock of turkeys, five hens, single file, 

with a train of chicks, slowly cross the field,

a funeral procession celebrating

the cycle of life.   Our tears lament this truth.

We will spread his ashes in the meadow

where his spirit can continue that

fluid canter and rhythmic trot forever,

doubling back to check a smell, alive,

always in the moment, looking to see

if we were still in the vicinity.

 

Halloween Owl

On Halloween he flew into my window.

I did not hear the awful crunching thud.

I only saw the eerie image, face

and wings, his powder left upon my pane

when sun’s illuminating breath revealed

this apparition.  Huge round hollow eyes

unseeing, stared blankly, no threat to mice,

unnerving to me, this day when dead souls wander.

Coincidence can seem like planned design

And often drives imagination wild.

The owl, I know, was just a bird, confused

by light, transparency beyond his lore.

He was unlucky: wild in mankind’s world.

The ghost I thought I saw was just an imprint.

Meadow Fog Shaftsbury

An image of the meadow fog

Saying Goodbye

In early memory I am riding my six-four grandfather’s shoulders like a mahout.

Saying goodbye                                                 

For James J. Cormier, Jr., Esq., for sharing his personal story.

Booval, QLD  and
Sydney, NSW, Australia

1945-1953

In early memory I am riding my

six-four grandfather’s shoulders like a mahout.

He took me on his rounds – railroad tool shop,

pool hall, pub, racetrack, horse farm, orchard.                                                       4

                                                           

The railroad tool shop rumbled with repetitive      

din of machines dye-stamping, drilling, spinning.

I sat at his desk quietly drawing trains

on green graph paper, using a compass, ruler.                                                        8

The pool hall was filled with railroad workers sporting               

grease-stained white T-shirts, suspenders, steel-toed boots.

Bent over green-clad tables, their muffled voices

barely audible above the crack of the balls.                                                           12

He'd say, “Let's go to the pub." I loved the sawdust

and stale beer smells, my glass of ginger beer.

I laughed with the guys who always asked, "Are you

Aussie or Yank?" I always answered, "Both!"                                                       16

On Saturdays grandfather ran the racetrack tote board. 

Afterward, we picked up discarded claim tickets. 

Every once and a while, we found a winner

I stuck in his hatband like a feather.                                                                      20

My father managed a barn and boarded strangers’

horses.  In fig groves there, I set bird traps

high in the trees for Grandfather.  He would cage

the birds a short while, release and catch some more.                                       24

  

On Guy Fawkes Day when I was six, my fireworks           

jumped the barrel, setting a field ablaze.                             

The fire threatened to burn several buildings,

including the school.  My friends all ran away.                                                    28

I fled to Grandfather’s and hid under his bed.    

The police, firemen, neighbors, family and school

searched until dusk. After the fuss died down,

he came home, looked under his bed, hugged me.                                              32

When I was eight, my folks decided to emigrate.

They promised we would return to see my Grandfather

who came to the dock to see us off.  The steward

handed us each a streamer. Mine was white.                                                         36

I threw one end to Grandfather and kept the other.                      

The gangplank removed, whistle blown, lines cast-off,

the ship carefully backed out of the slip.

I walked toward the bow; he walked along the pier.                                             40

We fiercely clutched our end of the streamer.        

In the channel the ship pivoted like a hippo.

The streamer’s coils stretched until they broke

and each end slowly fluttered to the water.                                                           44

I saw Grandfather bury his face in his hands  

and bow his head.

I never saw him again.